Mediums
by chronic faux pas
Summary: Dean loves everything about art. Mild DTSF


Dean loved every medium. They had different textures and uses, but they all made something beautiful. Something that had the ability to capture moments of pure emotion.

* * *

Ink was classic and readily available. It stained the teen's shirt sleeves, hands, and quills. He never found any objection in that though. Tiny doodles decorated the margins of assignments, and spare bits of parchments were soon adorned with sketches. Whether the doodles and sketches were of bubbling cauldrons, or of faces splattered with freckles, it didn't matter. Dean adored them all. As the years passed, teachers never found much reason to complain about the drawings, for they were simply Dean.

Charcoal left black residue on everything, including Seamus and Dean. The Irish teen never objected, used to his best friend's fixation with art. Dean's already dark skin was often smeared with streaks of the powder. Rough sketches could be found wherever inspiration struck. Nothing was safe. Hermione's History of Magic notes, the announcements on the Gryffindor bulletin board, and the white ceramic tiles of the boys' lavatory, all had been vandalized with graffiti. Irate house elves muttered to themselves whenever the black teen's fingers were splayed on some new surface, thin lines of charcoal forming a shape that would have to be cleaned off.

* * *

It became the joke between Dean's dorm mates, when would the teen find something new to reproduce? Between the sunlight reflecting on the lake and the flurry of owls that delivered the morning post, the possibilities were endless. When the other boys joked, Seamus supported.

* * *

Paint was large in opportunities, but cumbersome. From the collapsible easel in Dean's trunk to the bottles of different types of paint, it was clear that it was one of Dean's favourite mediums. On the spring days where the other boys engaged in games of Quidditch, Dean chose to paint. Everything and everyone that caught his eye. Notebooks full of watercolours were sent home; subjects ranging from the Whomping Willow to Neville's Remembrall to his best friend.

Acrylics and oils captured landscapes and scenes that were purely from the world around Dean. There had been numerous times where Dean had dragged Seamus into the Forbidden Forest simply because Dean had heard from Hagrid that a family of unicorns were in the area. It turned out that the family of unicorns was actually the remainder of Hagrid's beloved Blast-Ended Skrewts. It was worth all the detentions assigned by Filch and the numerous house points that were lost for being out past curfew. The smell of wet paint and linseed oil is a comfort to Dean, a reminder of home, Hogwarts, and things he loved.

* * *

Art is pure expression, and Dean Thomas has a lot to express. Having a hyperactive Irishman as his best friend has rubbed off on him. He's gone from shy to having too much to say. And, there's always time for an argument on whether football or Quidditch is better.

* * *

Canvas has always excited Dean. The blank surface just screamed for inspiration. Splashes of colour and streaks of black. Faces and landscapes, the canvas just took it all. It was smooth and totally passive in its transformation to something new. Under the calloused palms and fingers of Dean's hands it was a contradiction, smooth but rough; rather like Seamus' hair. At times it felt like silk and others it was coarse and unyielding.

Finally, Dean's favourite part of art was the subjects. Specifically, human subjects. Candid portraits of his family and friends graced various surfaces. His mother, step-father, and numerous siblings had all been forced to sit or hold a position for hours. The most supportive had always been Seamus. Seamus lounging, flying, scarfing down breakfast, and sleeping had all been subjects in various pieces. Through time Dean got to know the sharp angles of his friend's face and the way that his hair fell messily into eyes that were too blue to be called green. The arch of Seamus' nose and the way that freckles sprouted on his face and neck during the summer, all were familiar to Dean.

* * *

So, somehow through his love of drawing, Dean found another love. 


End file.
